Sing your heart out!

It’s been so long since I’ve had a chance to perform live; I guess I thought my music days were behind me. Am I disappointed that my singing career petered out? You bet! But I did get to perform at the fabulous Proctor’s Theater last week at a private party to honor Dave Oliker’s career at MVP Health Plan.

photo by Gary Gold

I’m an American Idol/X Factor/The Voice addict; can’t get enough of the auditions, the judges, the songs, even Ryan Seacrest’s corny commentary. I sit glued to the TV every Wednesday and Thursday night, agonizing along with the contestants, feeling their pain and embarrassment and very rare glories.

I wish it was me up there.

I know exactly how they feel; it’s like a slow, poignant torture, watching them get a chance to be a singing star. That was my dream. I was sure I could do it, believed I had all of the ingredients and that it was totally attainable. After all, I applied all of my talent, life skills and lessons to the process: study and work hard, become educated about the business and the craft, promote yourself relentlessly, make contacts and build a network, write with million-selling hit songwriters, win competitions and awards. And I did win several, clawing up the slippery slope of the fickle music business. I went pretty far, attracting the attention of and being signed as a recording artist to a Nashville record label, appearing at concerts, Fan Fair and on television. Being flown to Toronto to film a music video that still airs on Great American Country.

I loved it.

When I first went to Nashville with stars in my eyes, I had an uneasy premonition of how it might all end even if I did make it big. In every office meeting, the publisher/artist/manager/agent had those gold record plaques that trumpeted their hit, their worthiness, the visible proof of their success. And where were they now; forever living off their laurels, yearning and reaching for another shot, praying for the miracle good luck kiss bestowed for arbitrary reasons that would allow them to be relevant again, to get back on top. The sad truth is, when you are on top, the only place to go is down.

But I wanted it anyway.

The music business is unkind and oxymoronic as it tries to cram creativity into a marketable package, but no one can explain why some artists or songs take off and most don’t. When my first nationally released album bombed, I was let go from my contract. I mourned when I accepted that I really had gone as far as I could without sacrificing everything else. It was so hard to give up. I’m not a quitter. But I didn’t want to end up like Gloria Swanson in Sunset Blvd, clinging to memories and asking everyone I met, “do you recognize me?”

I did have some success: my version of “Lean on Me” was licensed by Live with Regis & Kelly, and songs I’ve written have been used in TV and movies. I get royalty checks from iTunes downloads, licensing and airplay around the world. I’ve met some of the stars I aspired to be. See, I’m still tempted to defend my accomplishments, even without a gold record.

I could try to place blame. But finally in the deep dark alone night, I let myself say quietly in my head what I feared all along, what I hid behind smiles and jokes and excuses about poor distribution and inadequate radio promotion: that I just wasn’t good enough, that I would never get there, that my best has already been. That is a dark hole to climb out of, hiding humiliation, a pasted-on smile framing vague answers about a next album or appearance, knowing that there won’t be one.

Now I get along. I tell myself that it’s a blessing in disguise. Maybe I wouldn’t have had the fortitude for the downward spiral after the wild triumph had it come. Certainly I enjoy my regular life much more now, no longer striving toward the improbable, dodging rejection, dancing on the edge of huge swings up and down. I have treasured memories, experiences and recordings that are a testament to my effort. At least I tried.

Regets? No. Ironically, I’m more confident of my talent now that I don’t have to prove it anymore. I have this wonderful outlet for expression. My real fortune is in the moment when a listener tells me that my song about my sister helped her tell hers how important she was to her. It’s in the emails I get from women around the country thanking me for the song about my girlfriends that inspired them to tell a friend they love them. It’s in the tears in my mother’s eyes when I sang my tribute to her, “My Mom Says I Can.” I knock ‘em dead at a karaoke bar.

But when I see someone on stage, when I go to a concert, when I tune in to American Idol, I get those little butterflies in my stomach, that nervous feeling as that week’s contenders perform. I see that moment before the decision stand still in time, when the loser still has a chance, still hopes beyond hope that they won’t be eliminated. And then the ecstasy of the relieved and jubilant winner.

Valerie, I remember you very well from the time (around 2004) that you were making that documentary about “My Girlfriends’ Quilt” and still striving to become a musical “star.” Even then I felt that your complex life was a rich one that allowed your music and poetry to manifest in many ways.

It’s good to hear that you’re still sharing that part of yourself with others in a meaningful and enjoyable way.

Thanks so much for also sharing a vulnerable part of yourself that names some of your past dreams and then lets them go to move on to other things that are more sustaining and more real.